


Nuance

by AClever_Username



Series: Somewhere to go [4]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Found family sweetness, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Prompt ficcy snippet thing?, Set in 'Somewhere to go' universe so Simon is dead sorry, will add tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:20:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23131582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AClever_Username/pseuds/AClever_Username
Summary: A continuation of the 'Somewhere to go' universe in smaller snippets (and prompts if anyone has any) featuring Connor's journey as a deviant after the peaceful android revolution.
Series: Somewhere to go [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1118928
Comments: 58
Kudos: 120





	1. The Raid

**Author's Note:**

> Heads up reading the other parts of the series will get you right up to speed, but most of the kinda thing I have planned to write are probably okay on their own? 
> 
> Not every chapter will necessarily be in time order, (there's a couple of in-game scenes I think would be cool to do), and if there's any prompts or anything you want let me know - my imagination is unfortunately not limitless :')
> 
> This whole idea (and this first chapter) came from this very kind comment, so (if you're reading) thank you!:
> 
> Hubran - "I hadn’t really thought about how scared Connor must have been during the raid on Jericho. He’s such a capable murder-machine that he comes across as fearless when crazy shit’s going down, but thinking it through he must have been terrified. I’d be interested to read a whole story about his experience escaping from the ship during the raid. Lots of potential there, I think."

In the dark, and gloom, the collar of Hank’s borrowed coat brushed against Connor’s neck. Snow fell, softly; he could see it outside the windows of Jericho’s control deck. Flakes had settled on his shoulders. It was so cold, surrounded only by abandoned metal, that they didn’t melt.

The red wall came down.

Connor gasped as the world briefly lit up blue.

Markus. The wavering gun.

I AM **DEVIANT.**

He didn’t remember lowering the gun but it hung limply by his side. He blinked dazedly at Markus’ feet. The corrugated iron floor of the ship. 

The snow blew in from the open door.

He looked up, at Markus’ careful stillness.

“They’re going to attack Jericho.”

The words were unreal, distant, even as he said them.

In a daze he heard sounds overhead, the groaning of approaching aircraft, and looked up. The air was so cold, so sharp as he took it in through his lips. He’d never noticed before.

Connor shook himself. _They’re going to attack Jericho._

He met Markus’ harried look. “We have to get outta here!”

A second of hesitation, and Markus ran by. Connor followed, the gun still dangling from his hand. The soldiers were there already, overhead. Snow trickled down his collar.

Gunshots started. Screams. The dull clanging of metal. Connor followed Markus’ flapping coattails. He shoved the gun away and ran.

His Thirium pump pounded in his chest.

_I am Deviant. I am Deviant. I am Deviant._

Connor skidded to a halt as Markus met another android, stood there whilst she said _“our people are trapped in the hold, they’re gonna be slaughtered!”_ He could hear it happening. Soldiers gunning them down because _he_ had told them where to start shooting. Fish in a barrel.

The stampeding of feet sent vibrations along the floor. Connor looked between them, wide eyed, barely following.

Markus was backing away, going to blow up Jericho. Connor found his voice, and the other android glanced at him, as if just noticing he was there.

_~~(Connor barely felt there).~~ _

“She’s right, they know who you are. They’ll do anything to get you,” he said. He knew it to be true. _He_ had been ‘they’.

Markus left, and Connor was running again, following the soles of a different set of feet. It was important to run.

It was important he didn’t think about the… _feeling,_ hovering just out of reach, just beyond the haze of everything happening around him. Androids, humans. The icy air on his teeth and the now melted snow inside his clothes. He had to move.

But fear he knew, from a rooftop and a glimpse at nothing, and even the haze couldn’t protect him from it, lodged somewhere, illogically, in his biocomponents. In the _I am Deviant_ thrum of his Thirium and the dart of his eyes as he looked round at everything as if for the first time. He continued to run.

Thunderous noise reverberated off the walls; so close, so distant. Inside Connor’s head, behind the bubble he was wrapped in, the blind rhythm of his feet. He almost missed Markus’ sudden return, only the slowing of the others made him turn around.

They kept on. Until with a gasp they were an android down, and fire sounded right behind them, pinging off piping as Markus fought back, his coat stained a slowly spreading blue.

Combat. The RK800 was made for combat. Running and fighting.

Connor fished for the gun, felt it again against his palms, his fingers, and settled into what he knew he could do. He tried not to think about the gasps as the humans fell. The way they littered the floor as Connor fled towards escape.

When Markus said jump, he jumped.

He hit the water in a freezing shock, and sunk far below the surface into the murk of November water. He couldn’t see the others. He could hear nothing but the rush of water filling his audio components, feel the pressure of it on his synthetic skin.

Connor stayed there, underwater, his Thirium pump slowing, the cold settling in. He blinked into the blackness. Suspended, on the cusp of feeling.

Deviant.

Only when he dragged himself out into the shock of the night air did he begin to drown, the detached haze gone, the raw edges of deviancy smarting against the sledgehammer weight of _emotion._

Jericho burned behind him. He crossed an arm over his chest to hold himself together. Traipsed after the others.


	2. Connor's Coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Stratford Tower, Hank confiscates Connor's coin. Then he gives it back again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was spawned both as an explanation of how Connor gets his coin back after Hank confiscates it, and as a result of a particular gif out there: At one point in the zen garden if Connor is left to begin his idle motions he starts flicking the coin between his hands - but there's no coin. So naturally I hc'd that it wasn't some sort of error and that without his coin in stressful situations Connor continues the routine anyway.

_Clink._

_Clink._

_Clink._

Connor had been playing with that coin for 70 damn floors.

The routine was, begrudgingly, impressive, and should not be at _all_ possible, Hank knew, because he had Googled it, and lost a shit ton of quarters down the side of his car seats attempting the tricks.

He’d also lost a lot of internal minutes pondering the question of the coin tricks, mostly to distract himself from the _clink_ of them happening next to him; whether some random technician at Cyberlife had simply decided it’d be cool – programming them into Connor seemed more plausible than someone _teaching_ him. If Connor was human, Hank would wonder if he’d simply learned them. 

But nothing he’d thought of accounted for how _often_ Connor fiddled with that quarter.

_Clink._

The lift ascended.

_Clink._

Hank snuck a look as Connor spun the coin on the tips of his fingers, his whole frame jolting with how vigorously he toyed with it. A constant movement in the corner of Hank’s eye.

The coin flicked back and forth between his hands, the _ring_ of it grating on Hank’s nerves.

He snapped, grabbing the coin.

“You’re starting to piss me off with that coin, Connor.”

Connor followed it with his eyes. His hand hung in the air for a second as Hank tucked the coin away in his jeans, the lift slowing to a stop.

“Sorry Lieutenant,” he said, seemingly unaware of _why,_ exactly, it was pissing Hank off. Hank sighed heavily, stepping out into the hallway, Connor a hovering presence behind his shoulder.

* * *

Hank’s heart was still going a mile a minute. 

The Deviant lay still in its stolen uniform; the rooftop quiet after the flurry of fire, except for the awkward clunk of guns as the armed response shifted, debating whether to lower their weapons. Assessing whether Connor posed a threat.

Connor was staring off into the middle distance, snow settling thick and fast on his shoulders and in his hair. Still leaning against the container, one hand curled around the edge.

They could all drop the fucking guns.

Connor’s eyes flicked back to the body at his feet. His hand tightened against the metal.

Hank moved to pry him away. He’d gotten ‘Jericho’ for them. That was enough.

“We’re done here,” he said, and it finally made armed response back off. He put a hand between Connor’s shoulders to steer him back towards the stairs. At his touch Connor stood unnaturally straight, his face sliding to a neutral that looked anything but human. The expression Connor only pulled, now, when he was ‘gone’, reporting to Cyberlife. The light on his temple cycled between red and yellow.

“Jericho-” he repeated.

“Yeah.” Hank cut him off. Kept pushing him forward until they made it to the rooftop door.

Under his hand Hank noticed what he had before, when he’d touched Connor – beneath the initial give of his skin layer came a solid expanse of plastic, hard and unfamiliar without the soft dips and bumps of tendon and muscle. It meant Hank could feel the way he was shaking. Constant, inhuman vibrations shuddering over his chassis.

Hank dropped his hand from the feeling and wrenched open the rooftop door. Connor descended without comment. Stupidly stiff.

* * *

Eventually they made it past the hoards of people, back down to where the car was slowly being buried under snow and ice. They probably should have stayed to investigate longer, but Hank wanted the hell out of there. Fuck Perkins. He couldn’t however ignore Chris’ questioning look and waved him over to fill him in. Connor didn’t say one word about protocol.

“Er,” Hank said at the car, to catch Connor’s attention. The flickers of red were gone from his little light, but it was circling a yellow Hank was beginning to realise wasn’t there usually. Chris fiddled with his clipboard.

“Gimmie a sec,” Hank finished, and received a nod in response. He shuffled a little way off from Connor and the car to debrief Chris.

He rattled through everything quickly – if only to get out of the cold quicker. No, he didn’t know what _‘Jericho’_ meant. Yes, that was all Connor had gotten. No, he hadn’t asked the kid if he was _sure._

His breath came out in white puffs as he stamped his feet, and without thinking he looked back over his shoulder.

Connor was standing exactly where he’d been left, next to the car. Hank had thought he’d get in, like normal, rather than freeze his ass off outside. But the uncanny blankness of his expression showed no awareness of the cold. Only his hands moved, and Hank trailed off answering Chris, squinting at the way Connor was clenching and relaxing his hands in front of himself.

“Lieutenant?”

Chris stood waiting, huddled in his DPD jacket.

“Yeah. Uh – keep me updated,” Hank said, and walked back to the car. Connor didn’t react to his approach, looking straight through him. As Hank came closer he saw why the movement of his hands from afar had looked both so off, and oddly familiar.

Connor was flicking his coin from hand to hand. The coin Hank had confiscated. The coin that was still in Hank’s pocket.

Connor was going through the motions noiselessly, throwing nothing through the air in repetitive, practised motions, each hand recoiling as he ‘caught’ it, his fingers extending as he flung it back.

Hank didn’t think he knew he was doing it.

“Connor.”

The android blinked up at him, hands stopping abruptly.

Hank frowned at him, slightly shaken. Thinking. He tapped the car roof, rounded the bonnet and slid in, turning on the engine and the wipers. He cranked up the heater as far as it could go, listening to the clank of the passenger side door as Connor pulled it closed and sat with perfect posture.

The car slowly warmed. Hank hunched in on himself, crossing his arms, watching the still form to his right despite himself.

One of Connor’s hands – the left, resting gently on his knee - twitched. Fingers curling against palm.

Windscreen clearing, Hank watched Connor’s hand, then peered around the back of Connor’s head to catch the window’s reflection of his circling light. A blur of yellow on glass in desperate need of a clean.

The rubbing of fingers graduated to a rolling of knuckles, then into the same flick and catch as before.

Hank fished Connor’s coin from his back pocket. An ordinary, worn looking quarter. He offered it back, gently nudging Connor’s arm to get his attention.

“Take it then,” he said, and after a second Connor plucked it from his fingers, unsettlingly quiet.

Hank looked away, staring resolutely through the windscreen, clearing the last of the snow from it and reversing out into the road.

For a minute, they drove in silence.

_Clink._

Hank slowed for traffic lights.

_Clink._

He watched the snow come down outside.

_Clink._

He checked on Connor.

The coin shot back and forth between Connor’s hands as he stared idly out of the window, the weird neutral blankness gone from his face, replaced with something a little more taut around his eyebrows and mouth, something a little more like the Connor Hank was used to seeing. 

He jumped when Connor took a sudden breath, deep and unsteady, and spied through the rear-view mirror the slump to his shoulders. If Hank was a betting man – and he was – he’d say the vibrating he’d felt under his hand had stopped.

_Clink._

When Hank checked the passenger side window again the yellow had changed to a smudge of blue.

_Clink._

He didn’t play any music. He listened to the swift motions of the coin, and not the endless repeat of the way Connor had said _'_ _Okay. I’m Okay'_ playing inside his head.

_Clink._


	3. First Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor returns to the dpd station. Gets a desk. Is awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter follows directly on from the end of the previous fic, so there are references to it.  
> Hope you enjoy :)

Hank leant on the bonnet of the car. Waiting.

Through the windscreen Connor could see the sweeping glass front of the DPD’s central station. In the rear-view mirror he pulled his collar straight and pressed down his tie, squinting to check the damage to his forehead was completely healed. The skin was freckled and unbroken.

They’d replaced Hank’s bathroom mirror too. Connor had spent a lot of time that morning adjusting and smoothing and pressing everything pin-neat.

He’d also checked that everything was normal, still. No unfinished stasis tasks or errant boxes or errors. Just an expectant task list.

_REPORT FOR WORK AT DPD CENTRAL STATION._

It glimmered gently. He’d been waiting to add it to his task list for days.

There was also another message from Markus.

After Connor had left him at Jericho, after…everything else, Connor had noticed the first message. Asking if he was alright. He’d left rather quickly. Been inaccessible for a couple of days.

He’d read it several times before replying. Things were better now. He was okay.

Ever since, Markus had checked in every few days. Connor always responded the same. _Everything is fine. Thank you._

Connor was uncomfortable every time the messages came in. He thought of Simon. The last time he’d been to Jericho.

But he also remembered how kind Markus had been. The things he’d said. Connor liked him. And so he replied.

He didn’t mention his job.

Hank shifted against the bonnet. Connor looked away from the rear-view mirror, towards the hula girl on the dashboard. Straightened his shoulders. Reached for the door handle.

Hank turned as he heard the door, tired from an early morning Connor had insisted on. Still slightly bruised around his nose and eyes.

Connor came to join him. “We should go in.”

“Whenever. I’m happy to waste as much time as possible.” He yawned into his fist.

Connor started to pull on his cuffs, aware that he’d already done that, and stopped, irritated with himself.

He started towards the doors. Hank followed.

Connor stepped over the DPD seal on the floor in reception, nodding at the same human receptionist from last week, who hesitantly nodded back. He wondered if he should introduce himself, but Hank simply acknowledged them and led Connor onwards towards the bullpen.

The staring was the same. A mixture of open and covert. Curious, blank, and cautious looks. The expected glare from Gavin, huffing where he was slouched in his seat, feet on his desk and arms crossed over his chest. Gritting his teeth. A slight dropping of the noise level as chatter petered off or fell to a murmur.

Connor knew everyone had been briefed that he was returning – Hank had told him. He’d not elaborated on how that meeting had gone.

The captain had clearly been waiting. Fowler stood from behind his desk and pushed open the door to his office once he saw them, waving them in sternly.

Hank patted him on the shoulder. “Here we go then.”

They filed in. Connor placed his hands behind his back.

Fowler looked him over. “Still want to do this?”

“Yes, sir.”

Fowler sighed.

“Right.”

He fell silent again, gazing sternly at him. Connor found the prolonged eye-contact unsettling.

The captain exhaled heavily through his nose. “Desk work for now,” he said suddenly, “You’re on…’unofficial probation’ I suppose.”

Hank opened his mouth but was interrupted by Fowler’s pointing finger.

“Desk work for you too, ‘cos I’m still pissed as hell.”

“What, for getting you another officer?” He waved a hand at Connor.

“Don’t push it, Hank,” Fowler said, exasperated rather than angry. “For taking off without warning last week. You owe me hours.”

Hank curled his lip in disdain but didn’t fight it.

Fowler tapped his fingers on his desk, then nodded to himself.

“Alright. Get to work.”

He sat behind his desk and immediately began typing, ignoring their presence.

Connor blinked, shooting a hesitant look at Hank. He’d been expecting the meeting to be…longer. Worse.

Hank didn’t look surprised. He shrugged and held open the door, ushering him out. Connor took one last look at Fowler, and left.

The noise level in the bullpen had crept back up again. Connor made his way over to the desk opposite Hank’s. Clean and empty; bare noticeboard, plain nameplate. He sat and smoothed his hands over the tabletop, his fingers coming away covered in a thin layer of dust.

He was being watched. Person was peering over her shoulder; Chris threw a glance his way every time he looked up. Connor fought to keep his shoulders from hunching over. He straightened the small lamp to his right.

Hank settled heavily in his own chair, enough that the momentum sent him rolling sideways, and stretched out his feet beneath the desks reflexively, only to pull them away with a jerk once his shoes knocked against Connor’s legs.

“Shit, sorry,” he said, righting himself and wheeling back close, “Guess I’ll have to say goodbye to legroom,”

“The hardship,” Connor said absently, brushing the dust from the desk surface and off his hands.

Hank snorted at him. Person had stopped typing entirely as they spoke. She started back up again.

Connor fell silent. He’d gone more or less unnoticed by everyone before. Now, he was incredibly aware of being observed. It reminded him of being watched by the technicians at Cyberlife. He could feel himself sitting oddly, like his limbs had grown stiff. 

It was clear Hank had noticed the eyes too. He seemed mildly irritated, but unsurprised.

He powered up his terminal and groaned at whatever he found there, scrolling through his workload.

“Dunno why you were so desperate to come back, it’s boring as ass.”

He raised an eyebrow at him. “Hope you like paperwork,” he said drily.

Connor had no idea. “I’ve never actually done any,” he said, “I wasn’t authorised to.”

“Well I’m giving you authorisation now. You would not believe the amount of reports I have to look over.”

Hank busied himself with his terminal. Connor looked out over the station, watching officers shoot quick glances his way as they walked to and fro.

“Relax.”

Connor looked back. Hank had dropped his voice.

“They’re just not used to you yet, ‘s all.”

Connor nodded. Hank went back to the terminal.

A donut box from Hank’s side of the desk encroached on Connor’s space. Connor pushed it back over to Hank’s side. Only for it to get shoved back. Connor pushed it Hank’s way more firmly.

“Ay come on, leave off - I cleaned!”

Connor raised his eyebrows.

Hank indicated his side. Connor leaned over and inspected it. Indeed most of the trash was gone, and the donut box was at least relatively new. There had been a rough attempt to put files into piles. On the divider were the tacky paper remains left by stickers torn roughly off a surface. 

Hank caught his gaze; apologised with a grim press of his lips. Connor nodded back and looked away.

They both landed on the maple tree.

“Yeah,” said Hank, “that’s pretty dead now huh?”

Connor scanned it, considering.

“It’s salvageable.”

“Salvageable,” Hank repeated.

“It needs water,”

“Pretty sure a shower isn’t gonna save that,” Hank muttered.

Connor was already getting up, on a mission to get water from the breakroom, attempting to ignore how eyes followed him there.

He borrowed a glass from a cabinet, settling it on the side as he registered movement behind him.

Chris came to the counter next to him, placing down an empty mug and shooting glances at Connor, opening his mouth, then closing it again, like he wanted to say something but hadn’t worked out what.

As he turned to grab something he brushed his mug off the counter with his elbow. Connor caught it before it hit the floor; offered it back.

“Oh,” said Chris, giving an awkward, but sincere smile, taking his mug. “Thanks Connor.”

“No problem Officer Miller.”

Chris fiddled with the cup in his hand. Then he moved to cradle it in the crook of his left arm, so he could extent his right. “Chris is cool.”

Connor shot a quick glance at Hank, who was pretending not to be watching them. He shook Chris’ hand.

“Chris,” he said, and smiled. He knew from the way Chris blinked at him that it had not looked as polished as his social programming expected it to. His smiles never did. But Chris smiled back and it was…nice.

They dropped their hands. “Okay,” said Chris, “well I’m – I’m just over there.” He pointed to his desk. 

“Okay.”

Chris pulled the empty mug from where it was cradled by his elbow back into his hands. “Er, welcome back,” he said, and returned to his desk, coffee unmade.

Connor watched him go, then filled his glass with water. He returned to his desk, and as he sat caught Chris’ eye, who raised his hand in an aborted wave.

“Now _that_ wasn’t excruciatingly painful to watch _at all ,”_ said Hank, as Connor turned back to him. 

“I thought that went,” he cocked his head, “…well.”

Hank rolled his eyes at him. “ _You_ would.”

Connor held the glass of water. He didn’t feel so tight anymore.

He reached over to water the tree; Hank pushed it towards him as he went to pour, so he almost spilled water over his desk. The tree was settled firmly on Connor’s side.

“You think it’s still alive, you can have it. First day gift or something.” 

The Japanese maple sat next to Connor’s terminal, just above his keyboard. A little sad looking.

“Stop smiling at a dead tree you freak,” Hank said, “files incoming.” 

A _ping_ from Connor’s terminal alerted him to the mountain of files Hank had just sent over. Connor raised his eyebrows in alarm.

Hank shrugged ruefully. “You wanted to be here.” 

He did. 

He _was,_ there. At his desk.

The glass was set out of the way. Connor adjusted the maple tree so its base sat parallel to the top of his keyboard.

He interfaced with his terminal. Opened his first file.


	4. Double

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Cyberlife tower, Connor meets RK800 #313 248 317 - 60

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this prompt by Barkingmad:
> 
> 'something around the double connor scenario at cyberlife, I would be super interested to see your take on the bits surrounding that?'
> 
> So I wrote my interpretation - I hope that's okay!
> 
> Also, I hope everyone is staying safe and doing well at the moment, with everything. This chapter is typically angst-filled, but the next one is pure fluff, for a bit of a reprieve from the current mood.

The lift descended. Beyond the glass, the blue tinged expanse of the warehouse shot into view, dim despite the glare from the great diamond lights on the walls, and filled with thousands of white uniforms. Thousands of androids. Connor hadn’t really registered their numbers until then.

There were bodies at his feet. Blood splatter on the control panel. 

He’d done what he’d had to. Jericho was counting on him. He couldn’t think about how much bloodshed a peaceful revolution required.

 _REACH LEVEL -49_ silently flickered in completion as he came to a stop. Retracting the skin on his hand Connor locked the lift in place, and stepped out.

Androids stretched out motionless before him. So many he needed to get out. He started down the aisle between them, in the quiet. It was unsettling to see them all so still. He kept expecting movement. It crossed his mind that he would’ve walked between them without a thought, before.

Walking was wasting time. Connor stopped, the skin sliding from his hand, and hesitantly picked an android to his left. His steps echoed on the tiled floor.

He approached the android carefully, reaching out to grasp his arm, briefly surprised that there was enough dormant awareness in the android to grasp back as he moved to face Connor blankly. Time was ticking.

He started to connect.

“Easy, fucking piece of shit….” 

Hank’s voice. 

It took a jarring second to break the connection before he could turn to the sound.

A gun. An RK800. Hank.

Connor gripped the forearm under his hand tighter. 

Something within lurched.

He’d known there more of RK800’s; bodies to be transferred into, like Amanda had said, but he’d always been awoken alone in a gleaming lab filled with technicians, and returned alone to his storage unit. He hadn’t thought about the others, never wondered how many there were, never wondered if they could exist independently, without his consciousness.

He’d never thought about what meeting identical eyes would be like. How foreign his own features would look, so different to what he saw in his reflection, beyond just the inversion of a mirror. 

The gun was steady at Hank’s head. RK800 #313 248 317 – 60 didn’t spare him a glance, instead locking eyes with Connor as he walked Hank forward. Connor understood the warning in the display.

“Step back Connor!” the other unit – Sixty - called out, “and I’ll spare him.” 

“Sorry, Connor…” Hank spoke over the end of Sixty’s sentence, “this bastard’s your spittin’ image.”

Connor still had a hand clasped around the warehouse android. He kept still, kept Sixty’s gaze and resisted the urge to look away, at Hank. He was in a hostage situation now. 

The gun pressed closer to the side of Hank’s hanging head. 

Under the flare from the bright lights the room was almost inconceivably huge, and simultaneously filled with only the three of them.

“Your friend’s life is in your hands,” said Sixty, voicing what Connor already knew, “now it’s time to decide what matters most. Him-” and here he finally turned to Hank “-or the revolution.”

“Don’t listen to him! Everything this fucker says is a lie!” Hank said, and internally Connor thought it was unwise when his life was hanging in the balance – he knew how quickly Sixty could pull the trigger – but part of him warmed that Hank had called out at all. 

For the first time he broke Sixty’s gaze, to find Hank’s. 

“I’m sorry, Hank!” He cursed the way his voice wavered. He needed to stay calm. “You shouldn’t have got mixed up in all this!”

“Forget about me, do what you have to do!”

It struck him that Hank had changed his mind before he himself had. He should’ve listened.

Connor was still holding on tight to the warehouse android, too frozen to move.

Jericho _needed_ him. 

But so did Hank.

He chose from the options that hovered before him. _Convince._ It was how he had saved the hostage before, and he needed to save the hostage again. Save _Hank,_ the way he had _needed_ to pull him from the edge of the roof, and check he wasn’t dead on his own kitchen floor. 

Connor looked back at Sixty. He couldn’t be more than a few hours old.

“I used to be just like you,” he said, “I thought nothing mattered except the mission…but then one day I understood.”

He knew it hadn’t worked the second Sixty raised his eyebrows. Of course it hadn’t; they knew all the same protocol, Sixty’s programmes would prompt him to _Convince_ too. 

“Very moving, Connor…” Sixty mocked, “but I’m not a Deviant. I’m a machine designed to accomplish a task, and that’s exactly what I am going to do!” he finished, repeating the same words Connor had said over and over, back when he’d believed them, and then even when he hadn’t, but had clung to them regardless.

“Enough talk!” Sixty stepped closer; Hank flinched. “It’s time to decide who you really are. Are you gonna save your partner’s life? Or are you going to sacrifice him?”

The choice was simple.

“Alright, alright!” he said, stepping away from the android that had been gazing dully at the side of his face the entire time. Connor didn’t want to _surrender,_ but he raised his hands just a little as he edged away. “You win…”

Time slowed as the gun swung toward him, as Hank lunged for it, as Connor raced to them.

With a clatter the gun was lost to the floor, and it was just Connor and Sixty. They grappled with each other, a punch for a punch, a kick for a kick; identical combat programs feeding them identical information. They’d fight the same way, predict each other perfectly. Connor knew neither of them could truly take an advantage.

So Hank’s _“Hold it!”_ was a relief, even with a gun trained on the bundle they made. Connor sat up.

And then Sixty started speaking, and Connor saw the way Hank’s eyes flickered between them. He stood slowly whilst Sixty talked, understanding the game he was playing.

“Get rid of him, we have no time to lose!”

“It’s me, Hank!” he said, “I’m the real Connor!”

There was uncertainty in Hank’s eyes. He wasn’t sure. Connor had willed him to _know,_ when he spoke, and maybe Hank had an inkling – Connor _hoped,_ he did, that when Sixty had called Hank his friend he’d been right – but he wasn’t _certain._

“One of you is my partner…” the gun swung between them, “the other is a sack of shit.”

Sixty stood placidly in his peripherals, just following his mission. Ready to kill them both.

“Question is, who is who?”

Sixty begun again. Connor bounced on the balls of his feet, his fingers curling against his palm, looking between them as Sixty lied. “What are you doing, Hank? I’m the real Connor. Give me the gun and I’ll take care of-”

“Don’t move!” Hank cut him off.

“Why don’t you ask us something?” he blurted, “something only the real Connor would know.”

He opened his mouth to respond when they were asked the first question, but Sixty got in first, with details _Connor_ remembered, and with another lurch of his bio-components it dawned on him. 

“He uploaded my memory…”

His LED span a frantic yellow.

“Sumo!” he cried, and couldn’t get it out fast enough, remembering how he’d ran a hand over the dog’s back, because he had a moment to wait, and wanted to know what fur felt like on his skin. He looked past the gun at Hank. “His name is _Sumo.”_

When he was asked about Cole, he took a breath. He wasn’t supposed to know, not all of it, but he wanted Hank to know he did, wanted to say -

“It wasn’t your fault, Lieutenant.”

He ignored the lowering gun as he spoke, and the android to his left.

“That’s why you hate androids,” he finished dully, “you think one of us is responsible for your son’s death.”

Hank ignored Sixty too. “Cole died because a human surgeon was too high on red ice to operate…he was the one that took my son from me. Him and this world, where the only way people can find comfort is with a fistful of powder.”

They looked at each other, and Connor’s shoulders dropped, relief flooded back. Hank knew.

He was thankful for the shot. The way Sixty was abruptly cut off and sent sprawling to the ground. Sixty hadn’t had a life. He’d had Connor’s memories and a mission. He’d also put a gun to Hank’s head. Used those memories against him. 

He was thankful for the shot.

Sixty’s features didn’t look anymore right when still.

“I’ve learned a lot since I met you, Connor. Maybe there’s something to this...maybe you really are alive,” he said softly. They were both aware that it was true. “Maybe you’ll be the ones to make the world a better place.”

Thirium pump slowing, Connor stood there dumbly. No more threats stepped out from the shadows.

“Go ahead, do what you gotta do,” said Hank, and he followed his gesture, re-taking the arm of the android he’d selected earlier. The urgency in his _‘wake up!’_ betrayed the last of his shakiness. 

The androids reached out their hands and woke each other. The murmur of _‘wake up’_ echoed around the room. Connor eyed the RK800 on the floor. Sixty. There were at least nine other bodies, somewhere.

Hank was watching the deviating mass, bewildered.

“What now?” he asked.

_What now._

Connor straightened himself out. The androids were looking to him, in their droves.

They had to go.


	5. Connor likes dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor takes Sumo for a walk. Reflects on his first week at the dpd. Makes some friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dropping some oc's on ya

Connor shuffled his feet on the grass, reaching down to let Sumo off the leash. The dog stayed by his feet for a second, then bounded off across the park. Connor watched him go.

He’d had a relatively quiet first week at the DPD. Confined to his desk, as promised, he’d formed mixed opinions about paperwork – at first he hadn’t minded the systematic routine, but as page after page went by, he came to understand exactly what Hank had meant when he’d said _‘boring as ass.’_ Sitting endlessly made him restless.

Some things had to be completed by hand, and as Hank chucked files over the divider at him, he realised he didn’t have a pen. No pen pot, nothing but the Japanese maple on his desk, (carefully watered and monitored, but as of yet showing no signs of improvement) meant he’d had to borrow one of Hank’s, which inevitably became his. Now he had a pen permanently in the inside pocket of his jacket. It was weird to have something other than his coin in it.

Filling in the pages with his new Biro meant he’d spent a lot of time looking at his handwriting. Or rather, the standardised font: Cyberlife Sans. His mind wandered once he’d completed his tasks – much faster than Hank, and he wasn’t authorised to move on without him – so to fill the time he’d tried to form his letters differently, on a piece of scrap paper that had accumulated on Hank’s side of the desk and wouldn’t be missed. It was near impossible. After a while Hank had noticed the orderly rows of letters and asked about them, and once Connor, after a little bit of stalling, had explained, he’d suggested Connor use his left hand, and proceeded to be far more delighted than was necessary with the revelation that Connor was ambidextrous. He didn’t seem to care that it wasn’t unique, that every android was, and entertained himself getting Connor to prove it. Connor humoured him. He wrote backwards, and upside down, and with his eyes shut. 

He’d given up trying to produce anything other than a downloadable font. At least then it was neat.

Apart from Chris, he’d yet to properly interact with anyone else. Not even Gavin, who tended to storm off whenever in they were in close vicinity. He’d been warned off starting anything Fowler would then have to deal with, Hank had explained. It wouldn’t last.

The only person Connor had made any headway with was Charlie. The receptionist. 

Connor had entered the station, consumed with pointedly ignoring Hank’s grumbles of protest at the early start, and setting himself a task to collect water for the maple tree.

“Hey Connor!”

He started with surprise, slowing his steps as he passed the receptionist he’d yet to introduce himself to, and who had called out, sat tentatively waving at him from behind the counter. Behind him Hank continued on to the bullpen. Connor approached the desk.

“Hello, my name is…” he began automatically, before realising they’d already used his name.

They smiled awkwardly. “Connor, yeah. Uh. I’m Charlie.”

Charlie came up to about Connor’s shoulder, with short ginger hair that stuck out in tufts around their ears. The lanyard around their neck was studded with bright enamel pins.

“I saw what you did, y’know,” they blurted, “the night of the revolution? Leading all those other androids? You were on TV. I thought it was awesome.”

They blinked.

“Not the - I mean obviously the situation wasn’t -” They scrunched their nose.

They were interrupted as the door slid open and more officers filed in, deep in conversation.

“I’m fucking this up. Sorry,” they said after the officers had gone by. “I just thought I’d say hi. Newbie to newbie.”

They twirled a pin on their lanyard with their finger. A sad looking shark.

“…Thank you,” Connor said, “...and _‘hi’_ ” he finished with a smile.

Charlie grinned.

Connor liked waving to them when he came in everyday. He liked having somewhere to _go_ everyday. One downside he hadn’t foreseen was how much he missed Sumo. He’d became so used to him being there constantly that he found it difficult to say goodbye at the door in the morning. 

So even though he and Hank had just gotten in for the day, he’d volunteered to take Sumo to the park, grabbing the lead enthusiastically and heading straight out again. He caught the coat Hank threw at him on his way out, shrugging it on.

He was watching Sumo head back after his run around the park, when he registered a gentle pressure at his calf. He looked down to see a husky staring back with wide flecked eyes, tufts of white fur soft along its coat.

“Hello.”

It continued to sniff at his knees, tail wagging softly. Connor knelt down to let it nose at his hand and then, hesitantly, he reached out to pet it. At his touch the husky’s tongue lolled out and it plopped itself down, half closing its eyes.

Connor huffed around a smile.

Sumo reached them, and the husky moved its head to regard him curiously, then pushed its nose back. Sumo nuzzled at Connor’s free hand, so he scratched his nails under his chin.

Another dog, a little brown labradoodle, came running up next to the husky. They looked familiar with each other. Bouncing slightly, the small dog tried to climb up Connor’s leg where he was knelt.

Connor was distressed that he’d ran out of hands.

The problem was solved when Sumo buried himself under Connor’s arms, snuffling at his chest, leaving both hands free.

The dogs wagged their tails furiously, panting hot breath near Connor’s face.

“You are both being very good,” he said to them quietly, running his fingers over their fur, the metal on their collars jingling.

“Having fun there?”

Connor jumped; took his hands away guiltily. The dogs followed their movement back to his lap, the small labradoodle near succeeding in its conquest to clamber up into it. He looked up to see a woman standing over him, leashes dangling from one hand where they were placed on her hips, bundled in a purple winter coat.

He felt the scrabbling of tiny paws as the labradoodle finally found purchase on his leg, and without thinking scooped it fully up before it could fall the short trip back to the damp grass.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the woman, “they came up to me. I shouldn’t have petted them without asking.”

She looked evenly down at him, eyeing the LED Connor realised had been left uncovered in his haste to leave, and then at what Connor assumed to be her dogs. The husky had stood and was nosing at his neck, butting gently at his head.

“Pet all you like,” she said. Then, after beat, “they like you.”

Connor couldn’t read her tone. His LED span yellow and she watched it swirl.

He tried for a smile and went back to ruffling his hands through the dogs fur, avoiding licks to his face and making sure not to neglect Sumo, sitting next to him, thumping his tail.

The lady stood and watched. Connor could feel her gaze on him.

“My name is Connor,” he said, looking up at her through bobbing dog heads.

“Valerie,” she replied shortly, “Val.” She hesitated, then reached down and scratched between her husky's ears. “This is Nettle,” she moved to rub at the labradoodle’s back, “and this is Clover.”

Clover barked at her name and slipped away from Connor, leaping up on her hind legs to lick Val’s hand.

“Hello Nettle, Hello Clover, this is Sumo.”

“Hey Sumo.”

Val didn’t move away. They both petted the dogs in silence.

“He yours?” Val asked after a moment.

Connor opened his mouth, then hesitated. Technically Sumo was Hank’s. Connor just lived with him.

Val raised an eyebrow.

“…Yes?”

Val just hummed, then reached out a hand to Sumo. “He’s very docile,” she started, then took a hasty step back as Sumo abruptly climbed over Connor, knocking him on his back in the grass.

“Sumo!” Connor cried, as Sumo arranged himself, thumping himself down and pinning him to the ground. He gave a few half-hearted shoves to his side, aware that Val was watching, and that he still hadn’t gauged her. Sumo didn’t move. Connor gave up.

“…You good?” Val asked, after a few seconds.

Connor laid there, looking around Sumo’s fluff. “Perfectly.”

“Big dog,” Val said simply. “Are - is he... _damaging_ …you?” 

“No, this is fine.”

She looked at him strangely.

“We do this a lot,” he tried to explain helpfully.

For a long moment they held each other’s gaze, Connor sprawled on his back in the grass, Val fiddling with the leads in her hand, Nettle licking her shoes, Clover jumping over Connor’s splayed out legs.

Then the corner of her mouth twitched, and she gave him a slight smile.

“Well okay then.”

Nettle abandoned her shoes, and joined Clover, stepping daintily between his ankles.

“Looks like you’ve made some friends,” said Val.

She nodded at him, the faint traces of a smile still on her face, then gave a sharp whistle. Nettle and Clover trotted to her feet. She clicked them onto their leads, gathered both in one hand, then reached down her spare one.

“Nice to meet you, Connor.”

“Likewise,” he said, wriggling an arm free and shaking Val’s hand.

She leaned back, taking one last look at Connor and Sumo. She shook her head, snorted, and trudged off over the field.

Connor’s LED spun blue. His systems had registered the snort as _fond._

Sumo lifted his head. Dribbled all over his face.

_“Sumo!”_


	6. Given a Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank has a word with Ben

Connor sat stiffly at his desk, interfacing directly with the terminal, his light swirling between blue and yellow. Sometimes, usually when Hank caught him off guard, his posture wasn’t quite so clinical, but he had yet to shake the habit of sitting ramrod straight at his desk, at work. He had the slightly glazed look in his eyes that meant he was deep elsewhere, and it’d take a pen thrown between them to rouse him. It was tempting, but Hank would refrain.

He was lounging in his seat, stretched out at an angle to give Connor room, gently twisting himself back and forth with his foot. _He_ was yet to kick the habit of, well, kicking his new desk mate. It was easy to forget that Connor actually had long legs on him.

The file strewn open before Hank wasn’t getting completed any time soon. He’d taken to idly watching Connor as a distraction.

The kid had thrown himself into being back at the DPD, and although he was bored with all the desk bullshit, (Hank couldn’t even try to comprehend the speeds his robo-brain worked at and wasn’t gonna try, but he knew damn well he wasn’t being challenged), Connor didn’t complain. Not even when they got home, and it made Hank sorry he’d been stuck there for so long. He hoped to god Fowler realised he was wasting talent and let him out in the field soon.

Connor blinked and removed his hand from the interface, his skin sliding back over, and reached for the pen set in a neat line beside him. Dragging a file nearer with his other hand he got to work filling it in.

The other thing Connor had thrown himself into, was attempting to fit in. Hank didn’t have the heart to tell him it was a lost cause. And that was fine. Everyone was just gonna have to get used to Connor as he was - _he_ was managing it for fuck’s sake, and he was the most stubborn bastard in the place.

Chris and Connor, at least, were getting on okay. Every interaction was still palpably cringe-worthy, but that was mostly because Connor’s small talk could do with some work, and Chris was yet to learn that. The quicker it took you to understand that Connor was a little different, the easier it was for everyone.

Charlie, thank god, seemed to pick up that Connor was just _like that_ pretty quickly. Hank didn’t know much about them other than their name, but he’d seen how they’d exchanged waves with Connor, and so may or may not have accidentally on purpose left Connor to wait in reception whilst he ‘fetched’ one thing or another. Connor needed more friends than one sad old man.

The others though? No progress, despite Connor’s best efforts.

Across from him, Connor flipped the file shut, clicking his pen and placing it in his pocket, then gathered it up with the stack of files beside him on his desk. He looked up and over Hank’s shoulder at Ben, working at his own desk. Connor hesitated a moment, then stood up, walking past to stand by Ben’s desk.

“Detective Collins?”

Hank watched out of the corner of his eye as Ben, who had noticed Connor’s approach but not acknowledged him, looked up from his terminal.

Connor held out the topmost few files.

“These files are ready for review.”

Ben looked at the files but didn’t take them; Connor set them down.

All reports Connor completed needed ‘reviewing’ by a human detective, seeing as technically he was still not a person, as far as the law was concerned. The designated detective was Ben.

Connor was still standing there. Hank could tell he was going to try friend making again; it was one of Connor’s biggest tells – he just stood by you before he said something.

“I’m going down to file these,” he said. He was using his ‘helpful’ voice, non-threatening but also ever so slightly more irritating. “Anything I can take for you?” 

Ben automatically scanned his desk. “Uh. Uh yeah – you can take these.” He cobbled together his own stack of paper and slid them over, then turned back, his fingers resting on his keyboard. He caught himself before he actually starting typing.

Connor added Ben’s files to his pile. He waited a few seconds, and for a moment Hank thought he would say something more, but he just nodded at Ben and went down to the file room.

Ben physically relaxed as Connor disappeared down the steps. Hank pursed his lips. 

All of Ben and Connor’s interactions were like that. Hank was unsurprised. Ben had never been taken with androids. He’d never _hated_ them, not like Hank used to think he did, but he’d been indifferent, and often ignored them. They were always ‘it’. Hank knew Ben was struggling to see them as truly alive. 

Ben was a friend. Hank had been shitty to everyone he’d once called that after…after Cole. He’d wanted to be alone and pushed anyone away that tried to bother him. People had had a habit of concerned hovering that made him hate them all the more.

Ben, through everything, had stuck with him quietly. He wasn’t over-bearing. Didn’t treat him like he needed to be coddled, and Hank had appreciated it.

So Ben was a friend. And Connor was a friend. And goddamn it did Hank want them to get along.

If only Ben would just give Connor a chance – and yes, Hank was aware how incredibly hypocritical that was of him; _he_ wouldn’t have, if he hadn’t been literally accompanied constantly, if the kid hadn’t physically sought him out, and Hank had never been so glad for Connor’s relentless nature. Now he had a weird housemate he – fuck he cared about. Now when he had to shuffle for a piss in the middle of the night (he’s fucking old) he always, ALWAYS, checked on Connor on the couch, usually half smothered by Sumo, to make sure he was all okay.

Ben didn’t have the… _’luxury’_ of Connor’s constant pestering to give him a push. He might need one from elsewhere. 

Hank shuffled up in his seat and rolled backwards in his chair. Ben looked up and sat back.

“Sup Hank?”

And there – the ease in his voice Hank wished would be extended to Connor.

He decided to get straight to the point. “Connor’s a good kid Ben.”

Ben looked surprised, and uncomfortable.

“…Seems like it.”

Hank stayed quiet, and waited. Ben wouldn’t try to pretend he didn’t know what he was talking about.

“I-” Ben said eventually, “I-I’m just-” He flailed his hands about helplessly.

“I don’t understand Hank,” he exhaled. 

“You changed your mind. So quickly. And after-” he hesitated, but not for too long, barely a skip in his sentence, “-everything.”

It hurt, as it always did. But Hank let Ben keep explaining.

“You have to appreciate what happened - from an outsider’s perspective. I was there for that first case with you and i-him, remember? You tried your damn hardest to ignore him. Hell at that point you would’ve said ’hated’. And, and then, _days_ later you…”

He shook his head; restarted.

“After like a _week,_ Hank, of knowing this android, you suddenly sided with the deviants. You believed they’re alive,”

“They are alive.”

There was a second. “Yeah. I know.” Ben scrubbed a hand through his hair; looked towards the doors Connor had disappeared behind. “You’re right.”

He gazed at his desk.

“We were always told they were just machines,” he said quietly.

Hank gave him a moment.

“Yeah, and then we let ‘em believe that.”

Ben gave him an exasperated look. “This is what I mean Hank. The things you say now.”

Hank couldn’t help getting a little defensive. He crossed his arms, and Ben raised a couple of placating fingers from the arm of his chair.

“I just mean the old Hank would never.”

“Well old Hank’s an asshole.” He was given a much less weary look from Ben. “Okay current Hank is still an asshole, but with better opinions about androids.”

Ben just looked at him.

“‘N Connor did that?”

“It wasn’t just Connor,” he said. He was thinking about every android; that entire hectic week. “But yeah. He might’ve helped a bit.”

Ben looked like he was expecting explanation.

“He’s a persistent bastard,” was all Hank said.

After a second Ben huffed, and they threw wry smiles at each other. 

“Look I can’t-” began Hank, “I don’t know what you want me to tell you, alright? Just – just give ‘im a chance.”

It was his turn to hold up his hands. “I know, I appreciate the irony, but - and trust me – nothing can make you get it – that they’re alive, that _Connor’s_ alive, like seeing it with your own eyes.”

He dropped his hands.

“You really mean it,” said Ben wonderingly.

“Yeah,” said Hank gently. “I fucking mean it.” 

He rolled back. He’d done enough interfering. Now he could go back to minding his own business. He left Ben to look over his own reports and reluctantly dragged his abandoned file closer to finish.

Connor returned, empty handed, a short while later, crossing in front of Ben’s desk to get back to his own.

“Er-Connor!” Ben called as he went past, and Connor paused. Hank could see his surprise. 

“Thanks,” said Ben, and inclined his head towards the file room. “Um. And these-” he gestured to the reports “-are perfect.”

Connor immediately stood a little taller. He did that when someone praised him. He still looked carefully composed, but Hank could read he was pleased.

“Thank you, detective.”

He sat in his seat, straightening his tie as he sat, and Hank gave in to the temptation to chuck a pen at him.


	7. Connor Really Likes Dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben goes for a walk. And meets Connor, and some dogs.

Morning walks weren’t exactly something Ben made a habit of, but the sun had shone out from behind the clouds when he’d shoved aside the curtains, and so out of some sense of duty to appreciate its rare appearance he’d ventured out.

He was walking aimlessly, and unhurriedly, enjoying the crisp air after being bent over pile after pile of files at the station. Normally he wouldn’t mind, but he had _double_ the files to read, now that he was in charge of Connor’s – _more_ than double; the android was efficient.

His wandering took him to the park – an open space populated mostly by dog walkers, and an ambitious runner in shorts that made Ben shiver just to look at; the sun may have been out but it was still winter, still freezing. He swung open the gate, aiming to take a quick loop of the field and head back, having done something productive and acknowledged the break from grey sky, to the comfort of his couch.

Ben trudged up the path, idly people watching and trying not to catch anyone’s eye. 

Out on the grass, a tall, lone figure caught Ben’s attention.

Connor.

He hadn’t spotted Ben, but it was definitely him. Ben had been thrown momentarily by the dark jacket Connor was wearing – he’d never seen him in anything but the Cyberlife uniform – but his face was unmistakable. There wasn’t exactly any other model to confuse him with.

Ben had been thinking about what Hank had said for days, the conversation always bubbling somewhere in the back of his mind.

It was difficult to un-learn things. But Ben had always trusted Hank and no-one could say that Hank didn’t trust Connor – you could see it on them. Or in Ben’s case, hear it. He didn’t _mean_ to eavesdrop, but his desk was right behind theirs. Overhearing them was unavoidable. The _disbelief_ was unavoidable, at the way they interacted with each other. Ben hadn’t heard Hank like that for years. And Connor – the two _bantered_ sometimes. Ben had never heard an android speak like that.

But he’d never really spoken to any, had he? Not properly. Not outside of their job parameters. Because he’d never questioned that they were just machines.

Connor was just standing there, in the park, though Ben supposed he was now too, for he’d come to a halt on the path. He wondered why Connor would even be in the park, until a Saint Bernard that was bigger than when he’d last seen it dropped a ball at Connor’s feet, and things made sense. Connor… _lived_ with Hank. Of course he would walk Sumo.

Connor re-threw the ball, looking around as Sumo trotted after it, and spotted Ben, who instantly felt caught. They looked at each other, and Ben could see the gears turning – (was he allowed to say that?) - in Connor’s head as he decided what to do. After a moment, he raised a hand and waved.

Then it was _Ben’s_ turn to decide what to do. He could just wave back and continue with his pointless walk. Get to the yellow pole at the end of the path and swing back for coffee at home. But Hank’s words bubbled up again, and even as he gave a short wave back, he decided: he’d get to know Connor. He’d go say hello.

Ben plodded off the path and into the grass towards Connor, internally wincing against the curl of shame inside as he saw the sheer surprise on Connor’s face. He’d have to do better than that.

As he got closer he could see Connor’s usual uniform underneath the jacket – the one he had vague memory of being Hank’s, he was sure - and somehow it made him seem even more out of context.

“Hello, Connor,” he said, and cringed a little at how formal he sounded. When was the last time he’d said ‘hello’ instead of ‘hey’ or ‘hi?’

“Detective Collins.”

And he thought _he’d_ been formal. Time to fix that. “It’s Ben so - you can call me Ben.” 

Connor’s LED swirled amber once as he logged it. Ben shoved his hands in his pockets, and was glad when Sumo returned. He wondered what on earth he normally chatted about as Connor retrieved the ball.

“You doing alright?” he finally asked.

“Yes.”

That was exhaustive.

“…I’m just walking Sumo,” Connor tacked on the end, and gestured as if Ben couldn’t see him. 

Ben reached out to greet Sumo quickly, and the dog sat, apparently done with fetch. Connor squished the ball between his hands.

“It’s nice to be out,” said Ben.

Connor looked as if he didn’t quite follow.

“All those files,” Ben continued, “– doing my head in a little.” He chuckled weakly.

“Oh.” Connor’s LED went swirling yellow again. “Sorry.”

Ben faltered. “No, I wasn’t - uh.” 

He cleared his throat.

“I was just saying. Deskwork gets pretty boring. For everyone. Regardless.”

The sun that had inspired him to come out had slid back in again. He shuffled uncomfortably, annoyed with himself. 

It was just Connor. Not Connor: The Android. Just Connor.

“You must be finding that, right?” he asked.

Connor took a second, tilting his head, his eyes sliding off to the side as he thought.

“It’s certainly monotonous,” he settled on.

“Monotonous?”

Connor slid the ball back in his pocket and grimaced.

“Tedious.”

Ben snorted, shoulders he hadn’t realised were tense relaxing. “Stupidly boring,” he agreed.

The sound of barking made him look down, and suddenly a tiny little poodle thing was bouncing around Connor’s shoes.

“Clover!” he exclaimed, and Ben blinked a bit at the way he said it; excited and _genuine._

He didn’t have time to process anything further as the first dog was followed by a second – a husky that gave Connor’s shins a much milder greeting than the scrabbling of Clover’s paws.

“Nettle!” Connor said, just as enthusiastically. Ben stepped closer to Sumo – laying in the grass, calmly watching the proceedings - as a woman walked up, exuding a vaguely intimidating aura. 

“You okay Connor?”

“Valerie!” Connor sounded incredibly surprised to see her and also a little at himself for exclaiming the way he had, Ben couldn’t help but notice.

“Val.”

“Sorry.”

She ignored the apology, and turned an unreadable look to Ben. He nervously re-hunched his shoulders.

Connor, clearly noticing the slightly tense air, straightened from where he was scratching at the dog’s heads to make introductions.

“This is Detective Collins. We work together,” he said, unsure, and Ben got the idea he’d never really introduced anyone before. And then Ben kicked himself, because of course Connor wouldn’t have introduced people, before.

“Detective?” Val questioned.

Ben went to answer but was cut off.

“I was asking Connor.” Ben shut his mouth quick. Val turned to Connor. “You work for the police?”

“I work with the DPD,” Connor said, after a second of hesitation, and then when it was clear Val was after more, “I don’t have an…official title.”

Val’s lips pressed into a line and she hummed, and Ben swore the level look sent his way was accusatory and unimpressed.

He was thankful when the little dog – Clover - scrambled on top of Sumo, still lying in the grass, and used the elevated advantage to leap at Connor’s chest. Connor caught her, alarmed, shooting a panicked look at Val.

Val looked unconcerned.

“She does that. You can hold her.”

Connor looked more delighted than was warranted at the news and occupied himself with shuffling the bundle in his arms around to hold her more securely. Ben watched him, and his gentle hands.

“I’m a friend of Connor here,” said Val, and Ben saw a flicker of even _more_ surprise – this time, pleased – on Connor’s face before he met her eyes.

“Right. Hello.” He extended his hand and she took it.

Then he appeared to be dismissed, for Val started talking to Connor about Clover, and the energetic habits she had. Ben thought it was an unusual topic of conversation, but Connor seemed enthralled.

Feeling slightly ignored, Ben didn’t have a lot of option but to stand there.

And standing there, lost in his own head, Hank’s words came back. _The evidence of your own eyes._

Connor was cradling one dog, his right foot warmed by Sumo and his left by Nettle, talking to a friend in the park on a day where the sun had decided to be kind to them. And he thought endless form filling was as boring as anyone else did.

Ben got it a bit more.

“I’d better get-” he interrupted, too loud, and Val broke off mid-sentence, unimpressed, “I’d better get going.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“Nice to meet you,” he said to Val, and received only a nod. He wondered how on earth she knew Connor. They made a peculiar pair.

“And - it was nice to see you Connor.”

“Thank you, Ben,” Connor said. It should’ve been an odd response, but Ben understood.

He nodded once more at them, and walked away, to get that coffee.


	8. 4:15am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor needs some comfort.

Connor lurched upward. Stumbled. He couldn’t move his legs. His hands reached out blindly to catch himself before he could fall. Something fell with a soft thud as he brushed it with his palm before he found a hard surface, and he stopped himself from crashing to the floor.

His Thirium pump pounded; panting breaths slipped past his lips. He shut his mouth and swallowed against them. The red of his LED dropped to amber and stayed there, circling.

Connor blinked in the dark, down at where his hands were braced against the coffee table, then down, to the duvet wrapped between his legs, ensnaring him when he’d tried to run.

It was Sumo’s ball he’d knocked to the floor.

Distilled terror from the nightmare was pooling at the back of his throat and bouncing through his Thirium lines. He waited for his systems to calm.

The minutes ticked by. The slight shudder wracking his hands wasn’t fading.

The usual flurry of memories that came to him in stasis had been different. Worse.

Good things - Hank and Sumo, Charlie at reception each morning, Val and the dogs in the park – even rare moments with Ben and Chris – had been displaced. Dropped amongst the memory and audio of panic and fear where they didn’t belong. The Bad bleeding out, tainting what it shouldn’t touch when he wasn’t conscious to stop it.

Connor righted himself, clambering out of the tangle of duvet and blankets he’d caught himself in, and gathering it in his arms. Put Sumo’s ball back on the table. He continued to shake gently.

He looked back at the couch. Gripped the duvet against his chest tighter, unsettled.

Nothing had happened that way. It was just his memory playback, playing tricks.

A shaft of lamp light from Hank’s cracked door sprawled across the ceiling. 

Without really knowing why, or what he aimed to do, Connor dropped the duvet on the side of the sofa and walked quietly down the corridor to Hank’s room. His steps were slower than usual; the night taking on a presence of its own around him – the familiar shape of the bookshelf, the mundane hum of the fridge otherworldly. Each step along the floor disturbed the still air. 

Hank’s door had been left ajar at night since Connor had asked it to be. He dithered outside the threshold of the room, slightly bouncing on his toes. Neither his Thirium pump, nor the slight shake had settled. He rested his fingertips on the door and paused.

He knew he should go back to the couch until morning.

Thankfully the door didn’t creak as he pushed it gently open, just enough to duck his head round, bathing himself in the dim rays of the lamp.

Hank lay asleep, a bundle of covers, exactly as expected. Connor’s LED continued its yellow rotations. 

He should go back to the couch. But he was stuck on the threshold of Hank’s room, rubbing his thumb over the pad of his fingers, back and forth. The nightmare still shuddering across his shoulders. The living room dark.

Connor jumped and hastily stepped back from the door as Hank suddenly jolted violently and tried to sit up in a flurry of bed sheets and curses.

_“What in the fucking – hell!”_

The door had swung open wider as Connor had sprung away from it. Hank caught him standing there.

“Jesus I-” he whispered, putting a hand on his heart. “That better actually be you Connor,”

“It’s me,” Connor whispered back instinctively. It seemed wrong to speak louder.

“Christ. Thought you were-” Hank panted, recovering from the shock and struggling to sit up, “– a demon or some shit.”

Connor pulled on one of his cuffs. “Sorry I woke you.”

“Woke me? Damn near killed me,” Hank grumbled, distracted with the covers. Once shoved aside he propped himself up on one elbow and squinted blearily in Connor’s direction. He spun a finger by the side of his head.

“Lightshow,” he noted absentmindedly, and Connor lifted a hand to touch his LED, glowing amber in the dark hallway behind him.

It took a moment for Hank to register what he’d just noticed, and take the situation in; the troubled spinning of Connor’s LED as he stood just outside his room in the dead of night.

“Oh. _Oh,”_ he said, then paused. “…Was it…” he said cautiously, and inclined his head towards the living room.

Connor looked at his feet. “Yes.”

“Oh,” Hank said again.

The fridge hummed far louder than it did during the day.

“I’m sorry,” said Connor, “I don’t know why…” he gestured vaguely at the doorway. “I-”

He glanced back up to find Hank staring at him, sombre. Lined, and drawn, sadness in the slope of his eyes.

“…Lieutenant?”

Hank inhaled and turned his face away, dragging a hand down it. He turned back.

“D’y’wanna stay here for a bit?” He asked, voice tight, and hushed.

_Yes._

“…If that’s alright.”

Something played across Hank’s face, and when he spoke, he was soft, and gruff. “Fuck yeah Connor, it’s alright.”

Connor crept into the room and sat on the floor by the side of the bed, his back resting against it, feet drawn up and crossed beneath him.

Hank watched him settle, the glow of the lamp soft on the room.

“You wanna tell me or...?” 

Connor thought about it. “Not really.” 

Hank nodded listlessly and shuffled to properly sit up against the headboard. “’M a piss-poor listener anyway, let alone at-” he looked at the clock on the bedside table, _“4:15._ Christ. You’re lucky it’s the weekend tomorrow.”

Connor considered. “Today, technically.”

Hank groaned. “You’re not allowed to _say_ stuff like that.”

A few seconds passed whilst Connor watched the skirting board. “Just checking,” Hank said hesitantly above his head, “it’s not like before right?”

Connor shook his head, the short hair on the back of his head catching on the sheets. 

Hank exhaled in relief. “Okay good.”

He rubbed his eyes. “You can come up here y’know,”

Connor glanced up, and Hank made a half-hearted move to shuffle over and provide more space. Connor clambered from the floor, and perched on the opposite edge of the bed from where Hank sat, furthest from the door.

Hank gave him a deadpan look and patted the space next to him, so Connor shuffled up and got comfy. The hands in his lap had stopped trembling.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.

“Nah you – you just end up with a kind of sixth sense,” Hank said, and paused. “Cole used to stand right next to my head so the doorway’s an improvement.” 

Connor stayed quiet. Hank picked at the bedsheet. They sat whilst the clock ticked by.

“You need anythin’?” Hank asked.

Connor eyed him in his peripherals. He felt better. The house didn’t feel like an oppressive entity anymore. But at Hank’s words Connor realised there _was_ something, very specific, he wanted. 

He’d never initiated a hug before. He hoped it was well received. 

Moving up onto his knees, Hank watched, confused, until Connor leaned closer and put an arm around his shoulders, and with a widening of his eyes he understood. He pulled Connor the rest of the way in.

Connor relaxed. _HUG HANK_ flashed white and disappeared as he congratulated himself on his success.

“This is what you were after right?” Hank mumbled.

“Yes.”

Connor’s LED flickered back to blue.

After a little while he pulled away, rolling off the bed to pad back to the living room, and his own set of blankets. The days had gotten steadily colder, and he’d woken a few days ago to find one more had been dropped on the pile. 

Hank called out behind him as he walked back down the corridor.

“Don’t even _think_ of waking me early tomorrow Connor!”

“-Today,” Connor corrected over his shoulder.

A pillow flew through Hank’s open door and thumped against the opposite wall, slumping to the skirting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i needed some comfort and sweetness too


	9. Irritant.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor fixes one problem, and accidentally contracts another.

Connor rubbed his eye with his free hand. Continued scrolling through the file on his terminal, the words on screen flashing past.

He blinked. And then blinked a little heavier, screwing up his eyes. When that had no effect, he tried batting them fast, squinting at the terminal’s blue light determinedly.

A few more moments, and he had to take the hand he’d been using to interface away, the skin rushing back, as he dug the knuckles of both hands into his eyes, following that with the press of his palms. 

“Jesus, you got an eyelash or something?”

He took his hands away and blinked deliberately across at a bemused Hank.

“…I have eyelashes, yes,” he said, confused.

Hank huffed. “No I meant – is there an eyelash _in your eye?_ You’re scrubbing away at ‘em over there.”

Connor looked away, back to the bright screen. “No.” 

Hank murmured an unconvinced _‘alright’,_ but let it drop.

There was nothing in Connor’s eyes. The problem was that they were dry. He knew exactly why they were dry, because he’d been ignoring the error box telling him that he was out of optical cleaning fluid since it had first appeared, and as of about an hour ago, he had entirely run through the last of what had already been caught up in his system.

His eyes were rolling around in their sockets without any lubrication, grating against plastic. A deeply uncomfortable sensation.

He’d been doing his hardest to just ignore the problem and finish with his work, but the urge to touch them and soothe the niggling feeling would only intensify, and he’d give in. Concentration eluded him. It was why he hadn’t properly immersed himself interfacing with the terminal and flashed through the text in an instant.

The problem wouldn’t be fixed until he refilled his optical cleaning supplies. And that was why he dismissed the error box every time it reminded him what he had to do.

There was only one place to go, now, to get hold of it.

Answering Markus’ dutiful message had become routine. It arrived, Connor left it a carefully calculated few minutes, fired off his response, and all was quiet until the cycle started again.

Connor liked it like that. But as he scrubbed _again_ at his eyelids, he was forced to admit he could put off disrupting it no longer. He was going to have to ask Markus for some cleaning fluid, and go to Jericho to get it.

He caught hold of the coin in his pocket between two fingers and began twirling it over his knuckles. Pictured the white walls. The hordes of androids. 

The screen ahead was over bright. Connor gave up with it, instead looking near longingly at a droplet of water clinging to the pot of his Japanese maple, brushing it off with his finger. The tree was doing better, he was sure of it; a little less brown, a little less dry.

There was that word again. He gritted his teeth and pressed the hand that wasn’t rolling the coin deep into the socket.

“You _sure_ there’s nothing poking about in there ‘cos – oh shit.”

Connor took his hand away.

Hank had widened his eyes at him. “Your eyes are going blue kid.”

He gestured to the reflective glass to his right and Connor saw that the whites of his eyes had started to tinge Thirium blue at their edges from his attempts to ease the discomfort. It was a little startling.

“I need to replace my optical cleaning fluid,” he said before Hank could start making a scene. “It’s not dangerous. Just…irritating.” He grimaced, pushing his coin flat into his palm.

“Oh.” Hank sat back, appeased. Still staring at the unfamiliar touch of cobalt watercolour, he tapped the end of his pen on his desk. “It’s super freaky.”

“It’ll clear up naturally,” Connor mumbled.

Hank just shook his head at him. “Where’d we get this cleaning shit then?”

Connor let his nail bounce over the reeds on his coin, then popped it away. “Jericho,” he said tightly.

“Ah. Right.” Hank didn’t probe Connor’s tone further. He considered the clock. “Fuck it. We’re almost done, we’ll swing by.”

Connor would rather go home. He sighed. “Okay.”

* * *

Hank could pull up a little closer to the tower than before. Connor could see Jericho clearer.

He would have to get out of the car soon. But first he needed to let Markus know he was coming.

Hank yawned into his fist as Connor reluctantly began to compose a message.

_Hello Markus,_ he began, and then stopped. How to segue into what he needed? He deliberated, and decided to get straight to the point. _I’m in need of some optical cleaning fluid._

The response was instant. _It’s good to hear from you Connor! We have some at Jericho, if you’d like to come by._

A split second, then:

_You’re very welcome!_

Two exclamation marks. 

Connor fiddled with the knot of his tie. 

_I’m on the outskirts of Belle Isle right now, if it’s convenient?_

There was a second of delay, so Connor knew he’d surprised him.

_That’s not a problem! Come on up. I’ll head down to meet you!_

Four exclamation marks. 

The overenthusiastic welcome inadvertently had the opposite effect of what intended. Connor sunk further into the worn seat of Hank’s car. Markus clearly remembered the less than ideal end of their conversation last time.

Eye smarting, Connor kneaded it with his thumb until his hand was plucked away by Hank with an admonishing grumble.

“You’ll make it worse.”

Connor grudgingly had to admit that was true. He was only encouraging the slight Thirium leak.

“Markus got the shit?”

Connor nodded.

Hank grunted. “Then you better get on in there.” 

Connor braced himself, staring through the window at his destination, and set himself a task.

_REPLACE OPTICAL CLEANING FLUID_

* * *

True to his word, Markus met Connor on his way in; he hadn’t even properly left the bridge leading to the tower when they encountered each other. The cream jumper and blue jeans Markus was wearing seemed odd on him – Connor’s mental picture of Markus was always in that grand coat, blood spatters of both colours across both their skin.

Markus hurried his steps a little when Connor neared, smiling enough to show teeth, worry laced through every line of it.

_“Connor,”_ he said with some kind of relief as he saw him in person, rather than communicating over their link. “I’m so glad you’re….” he trailed off, slowing his steps, his smile dropping to one of his intense looks.

“How’re you faring?” he began gently, “with the nightmares?” 

Connor winced. He had hoped in vain that Markus would refrain from mentioning them.

“Managing,” he said, and then, because his answer had seemed too curt, and Markus’ intensity had not let up, gave him a small smile.

Markus returned it, but still looked ill at ease. He evaluated Connor for a moment, then turned to start walking back to the tower, gesturing Connor to follow. He fell into step beside him.

“Last time,” Markus said, and Connor could see in the pause he took how he deliberated exactly how to word what he had to say. “I’m sorry we couldn’t help you more-”

“It’s okay, Markus,” Connor interrupted quietly. Markus eyed him, his near ever-present frown back on his face. Connor derailed the conversation further. 

“I really just need the-”

Only then did Markus acknowledge his aggravated eyes. “-Cleaning fluid, yes,” he finished faintly, registering the Thirium tinge. “You must be completely dry,” he said wonderingly.

Connor shrugged, squeezing his eyes tight enough that the lashes crushed together under the attention Markus had drawn to them. 

“We have what you need,” Markus said firmly as they drew closer.

As before, the bottom of the tower was densely populated by androids. Most of them stopped to stare as they passed. At Markus, not at Connor.

Or rather at both of them, together. The leader of their revolution, and the one who’d tried to stop it. Even those who didn’t know who he was frowned in confusion as they took him in.

Rubbing at his lash line meant Connor could block out their gazes for a few seconds as he shied away from the larger groups, falling behind Markus.

It didn’t escape notice. Briefly Markus’ brow creased further, his eyes darting at Connor and around the room, before he consciously smoothed his expression out. He lifted a hand to lightly touch Connor’s shoulder and steered the way.

Connor jolted with the slight pressure of Markus’ fingers. 

He was led to the busy centre, and then pulled down an opening into a corridor.

“This way. There’s a storage room for supplies.”

Markus appeared to have forgotten that Connor knew that; knew the building in a way the other androids couldn’t know it. It was where he had awoken and been tested and reported to and _returned_ to, like he was told.

As they walked further into the bowels of the tower Markus sensed his hovering hand and dropped it, lapsing into silence as they walked farther from Jericho’s main hub.

Connor expected Markus to make more small talk, or finish what was likely a grand speech he’d interrupted, but instead they listened companionably to echoes of their feet.

The walls plunged to a deep and vivid blue. The rich colour should have been oppressive, but Connor preferred it to the white. It was oddly calming in its consistency. 

Markus swung open a door and ushered Connor in ahead, into a modest sized room, packed with shelves, packets, boxes. One steel table in the centre piled with crates of bottled Thirium.

Markus immediately went for a shelf, rifling through its contents until he plucked a bottle free, and handed it over.

“Here,” he said, and only as Connor took it, rolling it in his hand, did he realise that he’d have to replace it with Markus right there. His LED flickered as he regarded Markus leaning against the great table patiently, no trace of awkwardness in the relaxed way he folded his arms. Connor turned away to connect the nozzle of the bottle to the tiny opening in his inner eye, tipping the bottle up to refill his stores.

It took a few seconds for the liquid to circulate, and then there was cool relief as it soothed his dry components. Connor rolled them around to get used to the feeling again as the task he’d set faded away. The slide was so much smoother.

He must have let out an unintentional sigh, as he heard Markus chuckle. A sound that seemed as oddly casual on him as the jeans.

“Better?”

“Much.” He smiled.

Markus nodded his acknowledgement. Connor fiddled with the small bottle. It was a clumsier object than a coin.

“May I ask,” Markus said, and leaned over the table to relieve Connor of the empty packaging, “how you ran out so soon? Cleaning fluid is usually one of the last things that needs replacing.”

To dispose of the bottle Markus turned his back, and it hid the flicker of yellow that flashed through Connor’s LED. 

“Malfunction.”

Markus faced him, on the cusp of asking for elaboration, and Connor met his eyes for just long enough to know that Markus had understood what the word was code for.

The floor was charcoal tile, glossy and sleek, reflecting his shoes back up at him.

Connor blinked and enjoyed the ease.

“Jericho’s always here,” Markus said after a long pause, and Connor looked up, shifting his feet. He nodded his understanding and Markus dropped his voice to something more casual, breaking the tense atmosphere.

“Stay for a bit. There’s much you haven’t seen.”

That was true. He’d known only the floors he was permitted, and that without Jericho’s re-purposing, but he wouldn’t be able to walk around ignored like before. 

“Perhaps another time,” he said vaguely, then hit on inspiration. “Hank is waiting.”

“Hank – that’s the human you mentioned to Josh?” he asked mildly.

He was being polite. Connor was aware Markus knew exactly who Hank was, thanks to DPD records.

“The same.”

“Let him know he’s welcome to come in next time, rather than staying out in the cold.”

Connor ignored the implied certainty in _‘next time’_ in favour of surprise.

“I thought Jericho was human free?”

Markus appeared faintly amused. “You trust him yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s good enough to make an exception - with some warning, of course, for the sake of everyone who uses Jericho as a haven.”

He reached for the door.

“Just on my word?”

In the doorway Markus’ face did something so complicated all of Connor’s specially designed software couldn’t dismantle it.

“Of course, Connor. You’re one of us - who you trust we trust.” 

He held Connor’s gaze to punctuate the words, then held the door.

Connor hesitated, then slipped through.

He’d pass the message on to Hank. 

The ombre walls faded back gradually as they made their way to the centre. 

Markus said words like trust. The gazes of the androids he’d been led through did not.

“You’re looking better already,” Markus commented lightly, gesturing to his face. The heavily reflective walls told Connor the same, the Thirium tinge to his eyes receding.

Beside him Markus faltered, and Connor would’ve been slightly alarmed if not for the distant look in his eyes as he slowed, and paused in the corridor.

“Something need your attention?” Connor guessed.

“North.”

Connor froze. Looked up with his newly soothed eyes as if he could locate her somewhere above him. She wouldn’t use words like trust.

Markus was still preoccupied with whatever was being communicated.

“I can show myself out if there’s more important-”

That snapped him back. “No! Not at all.” He hovered his hand near Connor’s shoulder again and smiled reassuringly, even as he read another message, and visibly deliberated what to do.

“It’s fine-”

“You can’t leave here by yourself again,” he mumbled, then seemed to make up his mind before Connor could think too much on it.

“I’m sorry,” Markus said apologetically, “I’ll just be a moment.”

“Markus-”

He was already walking away. “I’ll be right back - I insist I give you proper goodbye.”

Rounding a corner, he disappeared. And Connor was suddenly alone in a corridor. He straightened lapels that had shifted out of place as he’d walked.

There was no need to be at Jericho any longer. The walls around him now were pale blue; a few more twists and turns and he would be in the vibrant centre. Leaves, eclectic clutter, people. 

He could go. He knew the way back to Hank’s car.

But Markus had helped, and he’d also already declined his offer to stay longer. It’d be rude to disappear on him. Again.

Connor resigned himself to wait and stayed standing where he’d been left.

Barely a minute had passed when he registered movement to his right.

He tensed reflexively as an older android model wandered around the opposite corner to that Markus had taken, idly running one hand along the wall. There was something a little stilted to her walk that suggested she’d been damaged at some point, and she was sniffing; not in the short, rapid way of someone in distress, but periodically.

She made it a few steps toward him before she noticed, and stopped in surprise. 

She recognised him. That he could tell immediately. It was in the way she took in his appearance: his jacket, his LED. His face. 

He awaited a reaction. He wasn’t quite sure what.

The android’s tired eyes met his cautious one’s.

She smiled wanly, and waved.

Connor’s LED spun wildly with surprise. Whatever he’d been waiting for, it wasn’t that.

She snorted to see him caught off guard, and it turned into a cough.

“Ugh.” She made a sound of disgust at herself, wrinkling her nose, and as if she hadn’t just come across Connor standing by himself in a lesser used Jericho hallway, continued onwards, towards an artful stretch of wall that served as a ledge to perch on.

She sat, just a few steps from Connor, closing her eyes and leaning her head back.

Connor had automatically run preconstructions when she’d first appeared. The encounter was aligning with none of them.

Trying not to disturb her, he attempted to be as inconspicuous as possible. Melting into the background had been easier when the tower was filled with humans.

“I’m not going to bite.”

Connor startled at her voice. She’d cracked her eyes open and was looking his way from their corner’s.

He checked over his shoulder and she laughed with another wet sniffing sound.

“Yes, you.” She sat up properly. “I haven’t the energy to start being exclusive amongst my own kind.”

Her posture was relaxed, languid. No suspicion in the slope of her shoulders. Connor rubbed his fingers together, and made his way over carefully. As he drew closer he could hear the whirr of her fans wheezing. Worrying in the fact that they were at all audible.

She spoke before he could address it.

“So does the Deviant Detective often loiter in empty corridors?”

He stiffened and she raised an eyebrow at him, wiping her nose on the back of her hand.

“Relax,” she said softly, “just- this makes you pretty recognisable.” With her clean hand she tugged gently on his sleeve, the back of her hand brushing against the back of his.

Connor staggered back; his LED spun red as he pulled his hand away in alarm at the sudden jump of accidental connection, gone before he could register it. Exactly how Hank had described an electric shock.

“Shit sorry,” said the android as Connor spread the fingers on his hand, “did I get you?”

“Get me?”

“That’s-” she gestured between them, “-happened to a few people the last couple of days. Unintentional! I swear.” She extended her arms and flipped them palm up and down, examining them. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

Nothing had happened since the shock. The feeling already lost to memory. Connor dropped his hand.

The android sniffed again and smirked wryly up at him.

“I think I’m just old.”

“Harassing Connor are we Moira?”

Markus. Finally.

He strode down to meet them and Moira peered around Connor to speak to him

“Take it it was you who left him standing like an idiot.”

Markus grimaced. “Sorry Connor. I tried to be quick.”

“Why didn’t you just take him with you?” Moira said offhandedly, wiping again at her nose and grumbling to herself.

She didn’t notice Markus hesitate, or the quick look he shot between Connor and the way he had come.

North.

“I’ll show you out Connor,” he said.

“So that’s your name,” said Moira, and waved idly as they retreated.

Connor finally moved toward the exit. Hank was probably wondering where he’d got to.

“Is she okay?” he asked once they were far enough away that Moira couldn’t hear. “She didn’t seem to be running…smoothly.”

“She’ll be just fine.”

Connor cocked his head. They’d found the way back to the bright central space. Birdsong emanated from the greenery.

“As an older model, she’s a little more susceptible to mutations in her code, and those can cause minor malfunctions,” Markus explained almost…fondly. “There’s always something with Moira. Most of the time things right themselves without interference.”

Connor nodded. That explained the earlier shock.

He smoothed down his tie, and cleared his throat with an ever so slight wet sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (And so I continue to fudge android anatomy)
> 
> This actually part 1 of a prompt (thank you!) : 
> 
> WayWardWonderer: "If you're still up for prompts or ideas I know a good "sickfic" with androids dealing with something as humanly inconvenient as a passing cold can be entertaining!"
> 
> \- so I worked this into the timeline for you :) Hopefully what I've done is alright. Part 2 will come shortly.
> 
> It goes without saying normally but 'cos of the nature of this chapter I'm just gonna say that I hope everyone is staying safe and well.


	10. Under the Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moira, unfortunately, had given Connor more than just a shock

Disorientated, Connor awoke. He kept his newly soothed eyes closed, adjusting to the heaviness of his body, the sensation of sinking into the sofa. He tried blindly to shove Sumo off of him – it must be Sumo, pressing on him strangely – but his hands didn’t collide with anything. It took a few futile attempts to push away nothing but air above him before he realised that Sumo wasn’t lying on him at all.

His hands dropped as he frowned, uncommonly reluctant to investigate further. It would be easier, less of an effort, to lie still.

Connor peeled his eyes open to daylight bright and overbearing, immediately squinting them near shut again. Flailing his arms and legs a bit he shook the cloying blankets off him, grabbing the top of the sofa to pull himself upright.

“Oh how the turns have tabled. Good _afternoon,_ sunshine.”

Hank grinned smugly at him over his bowl of cereal, the TV talking away quietly in the background. He tapped the back of his bare wrist a couple of times to emphasise his point, and Connor watched the action sluggishly, uncomprehendingly, for a moment before he understood the gesture.

“Wow you really are out of it huh. Can androids oversleep? Is that a thing?” Hank mused as Connor swung his legs to the floor, everything a little…muzzy.

Fingers snapped in front of his face playfully, and Hank, chuckling, leaned back in his seat at the glare he elicited. “So you are with us then.”

Connor opened his mouth to retort, paused at the strange sensation that suddenly fizzed in his nose, and with one deep inhale,

Sneezed.

The sneeze wracked through his whole body, seizing him up uncontrollably. Just as quickly as it had washed over him, it was over. Bewildered, he sat in shocked silence.

_Hank_ sat in shocked silence, his spoon paused half-way to his mouth, cereal spilling back into the bowl.

“Did you just _…sneeze?”_

“Yeah,” Connor said shakily, and did it again, no more prepared the second time for the way his entire body became temporarily occupied with the action.

He heard Hank’s spoon drop as he sniffed reflexively, and fell right into a coughing fit, surprised at the _…congested_ sound of it. 

Once he stopped he looked up at Hank, mildly alarmed, LED blinking rapidly.

“You dying?” Hank checked.

Connor shook his head. Sniffed against an errant Thirium drip working its way down to the tip of his nose.

Hank raised his eyebrows and set the bowl aside completely.

“Do you have a _cold?”_

Despondently, Connor tried again to clear the Thirium drip, and Hank gave a short burst of incredulous laughter.

“Holy shit how has this _happened?”_

Unwittingly, Connor’s gaze drifted to his hand. The one Moira had brushed against. Clenching and unclenching it he closed his eyes in resignation as he remembered _exactly_ what Markus had said about spontaneous code mutations, and the jolt he’d felt at her contact.

“Moira,” he sighed.

“What?”

Connor ignored him, instead initiating a search to confirm his suspicions.

_There._ Buried within his systems he found what was accidentally transmitted to him. Finding it flagged a helpful error box informing him of its existence. He dismissed it tiredly as too little too late.

A virus. Working its merry way through his system and wreaking tiny tendrils of havoc. The strange disconnect – the heaviness – the effect of slight lag to his servos and processing speeds. More strain was placed on his cooling system; why he was so warm under the collar. Why he was so aware of the fabric settled all over his skin. A glitch caused excess Thirium and lubricants to pool in places they shouldn’t, round his nose and throat and chest. Hence the coughing and sneezing, in an attempt to clear it.

Connor wrinkled his nose at the findings and caught the end of Hank’s marvelling at the _‘wonders of technology, catching winter colds like the worst of us.’_

“I’ve ‘caught’ the equivalent of a virus, Hank.”

“Human colds are viruses’ smartass.” He pointed at Connor, then started ticking off symptoms on his fingers. “Coughing, sneezing, and general spluttery-ness? That’s the flu.”

Connor grimaced and slumped back against the cushions. Hank resumed munching on his cereal.

“Take it tried and tested chicken noodle soup ain’t gonna work on ya?”

Connor shook his head. “My self-repair programme will rectify the problem in a few hours.”

“Sucks,” Hank said mildly.

“Humans are crappy compared to you lot,” he said after another spoonful, “let me be a tiny bit smug you androids aren’t _completely_ perfect,” he smirked.

Connor rolled his eyes and let them slip shut, thinking bitterly about how he’d only just solved the cleaning fluid problem. He’d yet to visit Jericho without making things worse.

Jericho.

In his pocket, he closed his hand around his coin. He’d have to tell them what Moira was unintentionally spreading. He hadn’t expected to have to initiate conversation for a while and had relaxed. Moira’s virus disrupted that.

He made his message cordial and succinct. Acknowledged the answering concern as quickly as possible. He was able to sit back from where he’d been holding himself rigid once he was over, glad to see the self-appointed task on his task list go.

The effects of the errant code began to sink in as he sat there, without distractions. The sluggishness was reminiscent of the build-up caused by incomplete status cycle maintenance. He didn’t want to go back to that. He tried not to fixate on the fact that he’d be that way for a while yet, as his self-repair programme took care of it.

The coin rotated gently in his palm. Thirium began to build up around his airways again, and despite his best efforts to suppress the urge he coughed to clear them, understanding in that moment why Moira had looked so disgusted at herself. 

“Fun, ain’t it?”

Connor opened his eyes at the gentle tone, rolling his head so he could see Hank. He looked considerably more sympathetic as he drunk milk from the bowl.

“No,” Connor answered. And sniffed. “I don’t – nothing is majorly wrong…but I’m – I feel-”

“Shitty?”

Connor exhaled heavily. “Shitty.”

Hank choked on the dregs from his bowl. “Fuck,” he said, laughing even as he sputtered, “y’can’t do that without warning, Connor.”

Connor watched him wipe away milk with his arm. “Do what?” he asked blandly.

Hank got up to ferry his bowl to the kitchen and softly flicked Connor on the temple as he passed. “You know damn well what.”

When he returned, he dropped a box of tissues on Connor’s lap.

“You’re gonna need ‘em.”

* * *

Hank was right.

The sound of tissue grating against the cardboard opening, tiny fibres catching against each other as Connor pulled the topmost tissue free, set his teeth on edge as he methodically made his way through the box. It seemed like he near constantly reached for it. 

He tried to get up and go about his day like usual, but was consistently thwarted; firmly pushed back down to sit with bottles of Thirium Hank had ‘liberated’ from the station whenever he tried to do anything strenuous.

“You look awful kid.”

“Thanks.”

“Sit and get better. And drink that shit! All that blue streaming out ya ain’t right.”

Listlessly Connor drunk to replace what he was losing. The expected analysis box that flared up as he automatically took a sample every time he took a sip was oddly soothing.

He learned to recognise the tingle of an impending sneeze. He learned that he couldn’t fight it. And they often came in bouts twos and threes.

It was wearing. His annoyance only grew during the times he’d frozen expectantly at the first sign of a sneeze – half risen from a chair, or brush mid-way through Sumo’s fur; waiting - and nothing happened.

Fatigue won over come evening, and he collapsed into the dip worn into the sofa, slumping sideways so his feet stayed neatly together on the ground but his head rested on the arm. Sumo plonked his own head on his knees and blinked up with dewy eyes. Connor stared blankly at whatever sports game was playing, the sound from it long since blended to incomprehensibility.

He’d started to shiver. Most of the day had been spent running just the wrong side of too warm. He’d loosened his tie for a while, and that had prompted an ancient ice pack chipped away from the glacier at the back of the freezer and wrapped in paper towel pressed against his forehead. He’d kept it from sliding off when Hank took his hand away.

“Ice and paper towels. Fixes everything apparently.”

Connor frowned. “How?”

“Fuck if I know. You’d have to ask a school nurse.”

The last thing Connor needed now was ice. He was shivering. He was cold. With the arm not crushed beneath him he tried closing his jacket tighter around his shoulders, the light of the TV flashing on his face. It was a team sport, he’d worked out.

A flash of yellow dropped onto his shoulder. He startled – Sumo snorted and backed away from where the lump had tickled his muzzle – and looked around.

Hank had pitched the cardigan over the back of the sofa so it’d landed in a heap. Connor roughly adjusted it with his one free hand as he came into view.

“Well,” Hank sighed, and did a much better job of un-bunching the fabric from Connor’s neck and draping it somewhat into place, “you look pretty damn miserable. Might’ve the first android sick day on out hands tomorrow at this rate,” 

“I’ll be fine by then,” Connor muttered.

Hank made an unconvinced noise.

“My self-repair programme is perfectly capable of dealing with it,” Connor insisted, “It isn’t particularly malignant, only…frustrating.” 

“You don’t have to tell me son,” Hank said absently as he sat, and Connor’s fraught shivering ebbed under the warmth. He toyed with the button resting by his finger.

Hank turned down the volume of the TV enough to make the noise less of a buzz, then seemed to take in what was actually playing.

“I think.” he started, already changing the channel, “there’s some vintage Blue Planet on here somewhere.”

The ripple of cuttlefish on screen within the first moments caught more of Connor’s attention than however many hours of sports had been on beforehand.

Connor watched the sea life, now warm, since Sumo had jumped up and sprawled across his feet, almost peaceful.

Until the next set of sneezes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …So there’s now gonna be an accidental part three to this prompt


End file.
